


The Wine Still Agreed With Me

by Eisenschrott



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-27 05:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6271357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the battle of Endor, while the Galactic Civil War drags tiredly on, Veers mourns and drinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wine Still Agreed With Me

The bar door swung open. A frosty draught crept howling up his back, but Veers didn’t move. The TIE pilot at the nearby table was harder to ignore: without looking up from her half-empty glass, she growled, “Shut that fragging door, dirt-brain!”

Was she talking to him? Veers didn’t ask. Carefully, he pinched the sticky, wet rim of his tumbler between three fingers. His hand was trembling, but the target should stay acquired until the swill was down his gorge.

“General?” said a soft voice behind him.

The glass froze halfway up.

_Stars, no. Sod off._

A hand lay on his shoulder. Veers’ trembled harder. But not a drop had spilled yet.

“Sir, the transport is waiting.”

He squinted at the chrono on the counter holoscreen broadcasting some podrace (illegal, but less likely to rile up the Imperial patrons than Rebel… Republic… _scum_ propaganda). His mind converted the hour to Imperial standard. Thirty minutes later than the scheduled departure. Not good. If he could make that calculation, he was too sober.

“Can you stand up?”

He shook Major Tantor’s hand off his shoulder. Damn, but sometimes it was hard not to lash out at his aide. Since Endor he’d stuck to him like a flea to a Wookiee.

“Where in blazes are they dropping us this time?” Veers slurred, smiling absent-mindedly at the shimmering grog inside the glass. _Should’ve skipped tactical briefings more often._

Tantor sighed quietly. Seconds passed until he mumbled, “Naalol.”

“Never heard of it.” Just like he’d never heard of Hoth before the battle. Or of Endor. “I’ll be up in a second.” Veers raised the glass to his lips and closed his eyes as the grog poured into his mouth and down his throat, almost choking him. The one Piett tricked him to drink on the _Executor_ was fiercer. Always fiercer. “I hate—” his voice cracked, “…hate parting without one last kiss.”

“Here’s your coat, sir." Tantor looked sharply at the counter, where a Zabrak barman was glaring at them. _Disrespectful hornhead shit. You wouldn’t stare like that if Firmus had had the Lady train all guns on this hovel of yours._

“You did pay the bill, sir… didn’t you?”

Silence.

“Mother of moons, give me strength,” hissed Tantor. The junior officer unceremoniously threw the coat over Veers’ shoulders and stomped to the counter, wallet in hand.

Poor boy. It was just a matter of time before his compassion, too, ran out. Veers didn’t blame him. Maybe this time around on Nal… Naath… _there_ , if the Rebels failed once again in blasting General Veers out of his misery, just maybe, Tantor would draw his own pistol and—

“Let’s get going, sir.”

He found himself limping to the door, using Tantor as a crutch—hardly an unusual occurrence these days, both in the moral and physical sense.

The wind outside blew needle-sharp raindrops around, the sea in the distance was an angry purple. “Fuck this planet.”

“Sir?”

“Fuck this garrison of alcoholic idlers, and fuck the overpriced bad grog.” Veers swung an arm towards the bar they’d just left. “The Rebels can have it all.”

Tantor said nothing, and shoved him inside the parked speeder.

Veers was barely aware of the motion as the engine revved. Shit, did he still have his hat on? Was his seatbelt fastened? Why the hell did he care anymore?

“Lightweight.”

He turned his head on the pillow. It felt a bit harder than usual, but the room around him was the admiral’s quarters. He smiled. “Sorry about that, sailor.”

“About what?”

Veers harrumphed.

“Oh. Think nothing of it, dear.” Fingertips slid along his jawline. “I needed some rest myself.” Next came a kiss. He was too plastered to do anything, so he entrusted everything to Piett. The grog aftertaste in his mouth was horrid, he knew; Piett did the sensible thing and just focused on his lips, nipping one centimetre at a time, a slow methodical advance that in another time Veers would’ve chafed at.

If the Force or any deity was listening, he prayed they let this pathetic dream never end.

And just like every other time since Endor, Tantor shook him awake.

His head was heavier than an asteroid but the nap had cleared his mind. A shuttle waited on a weeds-infested landing platform, and the triangular shape of a Star Destroyer waited somewhere above the grey clouds. He would catch up on the mission details during the hyperspace trip.

Maybe this time one Rebel would land the lucky shot at last.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally for a tumblr prompt, where it appeared in two parts with some slight differences.
> 
> The title is from [_The Demon Me (Come Clean)_](http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2dtlaf_rome-the-demon-me-come-clean_music) by Rome.


End file.
